


Cusp of a Storm

by bluetoast



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Ben Solo is a Rogue One fanboy, Ben Solo respects history, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hitting Rock bottom, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kylo Ren Angst, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren is a Mess, Mental Instability, Prosthesis, Someone's going to get it - just not in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 10:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11229255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: Kylo Ren reflects on the prosthetic arm he now wears; it wasn't his choice. He wasn't in the condition to argue. He also has plenty to think about.Written for HC Bingo - Prompt: Forced Body Modification





	Cusp of a Storm

The connections burn; not like the flash of blaster fire or a brush against a thermal panel. This runs deeper, searing out into the spine, through the collarbone and sternum, and ends at the tips of the metal hand, splayed out against the pallet. There's a second pain, the limb that is gone, the arm he could not keep, the injury to grave for bacta to save it. 

That is what he was told. 

Kylo would like to think otherwise. 

He'd not been any condition to argue, delirious with pain. One minute he had seen a flash of light, and then his arm was just gone. The last clear memory of the moment lost when the bacta washed over him and he sank into the sweet oblivion of a medically induced coma. 

Wounds healed, but the agony within refuses to abate. 

He lifted his still human hand to his face, running his fingers through his damp hair, determined to focus on something other than the burrowing agony in his chest, knowing that when he closes his eyes all he will see is his father's face a moment before he slipped away into the abyss. That mournful, defeated, and crushed expression that Kylo would willingly give his three remaining limbs to reverse.

_Murderer._

His family was full of killers. That's what they did. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Kylo lifted his new arm, the durasteel shiny in the dull light of his recovery room. Strange that he's never noticed the weight of his arms before; they were just there. Now one of them is not there. It's been replaced and surely, this new one must weigh as much as one of his legs. He slowly made a fist, tiny little spurts of pain springing through his arm as he did; his brain would either one day learn to ignore the sensation the way one gradually stops being aware of their nose – or he would live with the pain forever.

Agony.

_You killed your father._

“Shut up.” He whispered to no one; no one sat with him, not even a droid. He took his artificial hand in his real one, staring down at the charcoal gray fingers, already knowing that when it's offered, he'll refuse the synthskin. He will stare at his mechanical arm, and know that this is his fault; this is his wound, this is his dishonor and he will not hide it. 

The thin scar on his face was a mockery of what he'd been expecting. 

Across the room, he can see his mask, and he knows he'll be expected to put it on soon, to leave the solitude of the med-bay of the Supreme Leader's citadel and return to duty. There was work to be done, so much work – with the loss of Starkiller Base and...

“Maker bless Galen Erso and his brilliant flaw.” He whispered and then let out a watery chuckle. He could clearly remember the day he'd first learned about the group known as Rogue One. He'd been young, so very young – and his mother had told him the entire story, one of those rare times that she had finished a tale before insisting he go to sleep. The First Order couldn't work around it, not without risking the whole idea collapsing or worse. They simply added security – and look how that turned out.

_You killed your father._

Sitting back, he shifted his focus to his breathing, letting the tiny spurts of pain breaking out along the connections between the false arm and his real shoulder flow through him, and he closed his eyes. Instead of seeing his father's face, he sees Uncle Luke crushing two hard shell nuts in his mechanical hand, a dopey grin on his face while his mother harangues both him and her son, as if the whole galaxy could see them.

Kylo opens his and looks down at his hands; one pale, almost white – the other dark, bordering on black. Light and dark, the war that had always raged within him, raged within everyone, but he was certain he felt it ten times more acutely than most. 

Strangely, he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to just let things end for him. He knew it'd been wrong to kill his father the moment his blade ignited, wanted to take it back the moment his finger hit the emitter switch. This had not been his last step into the darkness – this was the opposite. If this was rock bottom, he had two options before him. 

And only a fool asks for a shovel when they hit rock bottom. 

He flexes his false hand again, the twinges of pain brief this time, and he can think of dozens of places to start his climb, and they're all laid out in front of him, he just needs to grasp one of them. He looks down at his booted feet, suddenly remembering what he'd been doing when the pain had distracted him.

_Get dressed, Ren. Snoke wants to speak with you._

Raising his left hand, he focuses on his helmet lying across the room, and in a heartbeat, it flies almost effortlessly into his grasp. As easy and as swift as the lightsaber had flown to the Scavenger. 

_Rey_

He doesn't stop to ponder how he just _knows_ her name. He just _does._

He turns the helmet so the crown rests in his palm and again, he can see his uncle crushing things for amusement in his hand; nuts, ice, - and even once a rock. He stares down at the cage he's been forced to wear for the past seven years. To hide the face that couldn't hide a thing, that was an open book. No matter how hard he tried, he could never keep his expressions blank. He narrowed his eyes, and let his fingers tighten, the pain starting anew, spreading up and down his new arm, his fingers pushing forward into the unforgiving durasteel shackle that projected terror outward and strangled from within. 

He pushes inward harder, pressing not just with his hand but with the Force; remembering the small rock Uncle Luke turned to pebbles.

The first crack is so quiet, he nearly misses it. Then there's another, a crinkling, shuddering sound that brings to mind ice giving way to weight and the onslaught of spring. 

His whole arm is starting to scream in protest, and he taps into the pain, knowing that it's not the Jedi way. But then he is no Jedi. He is no Sith. He's simply – something else. 

The helmet of Kylo Ren falls from his hand, raining down onto the floor in half a dozen pieces, the vidcoder smoking slightly from the shattered circuitry and he catches a whiff of ozone as he crosses the room, kicking a hunk of twisted metal away and collects his gloves from where they lay, on top of his cowl and his surcoat.

Putting the rest of the clothing on is methodical; the part must still be played, because he knows he's deep in enemy territory and there is no sanctuary for him. 

Not yet.

But there will be. 

Some Day. 

The day that he finds safety will be the day he reclaims his true name and lets someone else call him who he truly is:

_Ben._


End file.
